


Pride Goeth

by alltoseek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's in trouble. Donovan asks Sherlock to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride Goeth

Detective Inspector Sally Donovan had not seen Sherlock Holmes in over five years, which suited her just fine. She'd been overjoyed at her promotion, not least because it involved a move to the Fraud Squad, away from interactions with Holmes. She missed Lestrade, of course, and her teammates, but she'd heard that since his promotion to DCI, Lestrade bullied the DI's who reported to him to invite the Freak in on cases whenever they were stalled. She was glad to be well out of it.

Only the direst of circumstances would see her trudging up the stairs to 221B.

"Hello, Sally, how pleasant to see you again after all these years," sneered Sherlock with patently false cheer.

Sally declined to waste any time on pleasantries or bickering. "Lestrade's in trouble. He needs your help."

"Is he? Why does he not contact me himself?" Sherlock dropped his facetiousness but seemed untroubled by the news. _Yeah, still a freak_ , Sally thought. _And Lestrade thinks he's a mate._

"He can't," Donovan said. "He's in the nick."

On their way to the Yard, Donovan explained. “Lestrade was at work; his flat was empty. A neighbour heard a lot of crashing noises, thumping about, and called the bobbies. They come, sirens blazing, and the intruder got away. Left the place a tip. The officer on scene called Lestrade, and got his permission to begin searching for clues to the identity of the intruder and why he'd broken in to wreck the place. Lestrade came as soon as he could, to determine if anything'd been stolen. Well,” Donovan paused, looking sidelong at Sherlock and John, “that's when everything went tits-up. Stuff had been broken all over the flat – the sitting room, the kitchen, the spare bedroom – which was where Lestrade's daughter stayed, when she visited. So the officers were searching everywhere too. In the second bedroom they found a box of stuff – girl's stuff, must have been the daughter's. And in it was a brooch. A diamond brooch that looked an awful lot like the one lost when the Monaco royal family visited London years ago.”

Sherlock leant back against the seat and groaned. He remembered Lestrade telling him about it. A Detective Sergeant at the time, Lestrade had been part of the team providing security during the visit. He had also helped investigate the theft of a large quantity of the jewellery brought along by the princesses. The investigation identified the conspirators behind the heist and recovered most of the jewellery; all but one piece – a diamond brooch, which remained lost. Until now, apparently.

“It's been verified as the genuine article. Lestrade was arrested.” Donovan stopped. She was afraid the tears would come if she kept speaking, and she wasn't going to break down in front of the Freak. They wouldn't even grant Lestrade bail – an exemplary officer! Not even a violent crime! But, “too great a flight risk”. Too high-profile a crime is what they meant. Too political, too embarrassing for the Met. Bad enough they'd failed to recover it in the first place, then for one of their own to be found with it – too horrible to contemplate. Sally was glad she at least could be certain Lestrade was not guilty. If it had been an officer she didn't know, she'd have felt disgusted by the whole thing.

At the Yard, Sherlock examined the brooch, which was being held as evidence until the trial. “Trace bits of powder,” he observed, inspecting the settings that held the gems.

“Yeah, dust. Everything in the box was dusty. Stuff must have been in there for years.” Donovan shook her head. “The whole flat was covered in dust, from everything that was broken.”

Sherlock turned to the other evidence bags, which did indeed hold great quantities of broken figurines and crockery. “Some of these have been broken before, and repaired,” he noted.

“Yeah, but none of it's worth anything. Just sentimental stuff, Lestrade told me. Stuff his daughter'd made, or given him.”

“Hmm. Has the intruder been found? Any reason why he broke in just to break a bunch of worthless junk and not steal anything?”

Donovan stared at him. “No. Look, no one gives a toss about that now! That's a petty crime at this point. Whoever he was and whatever he was doing, he didn't leave a million-pound brooch in a dusty box in Lestrade's daughter's room!”

Sherlock just smirked back, insincerely. “Shall we talk to Lestrade now?”

Lestrade was carefully composed, his face like a mask. It was painful to see him so tense and remote. “I've no idea how it could've come to be there. None at all. The whole thing makes no sense.”

“Can you think of anyone in particular who'd be likely to break into your home and smash things up?” John asked

“No. Even when someone gets mad at a copper, they usually do something more threatening, or leave a note. This seems like random hooliganism. But that doesn't make sense either. Why my flat? There's been nothing like this in the neighbourhood.”

“Some of the broken items have been repaired before,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, with a kid around, stuff's always getting broken. If she really liked it, she'd come crying to me and I'd glue it back together again.”

“What does your daughter say about the brooch?” asked Sherlock.

Lestrade stared at him, as did everyone else. “She's got nothing to do with this! How can you think – My God, she was just a child at the time!”

“Nevertheless, the brooch was found in a box of her possessions, am I correct?”

“Well, yes, but it's still absurd! I probably boxed all that stuff up myself at some point, cleaning up.”

“You saw the brooch, picked it up and tossed into a box without a second thought?”

Lestrade looked away for a moment, struggling to master himself. “You just leave my daughter alone. She had no more to do with this than I.”

“My dear Chief Inspector, I never doubted it for a moment.”

Lestrade gaped. “Next you'll be accusing me!”

“Did you have anything to do with the theft?”

Everyone leant back from Sherlock at his perfectly serious expression.

“No I bloody well did not! I thought – I know there's a lot in the Met who assume I'm... That I did take it. Planned it. Saved it for God knows what – or when. Gave it to my ten-year-old for a birthday present! But you – ” Lestrade broke off and looked away again. “Never mind.”

Donovan grabbed Sherlock's arm and took him to the door. “All right, Freak, you've done enough here. I should have known better than to ask for your help.”

“Not at all, Sally,” said Sherlock, smirking. “Consulting me was all you could do to save him.”

In the cab John spoke, “You know Lestrade's innocent, right?”

“Of course. He's not quite as stupid as that. He'd have disposed of it years ago if he had taken it.”

John leant back against the seat and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. After all these years with Sherlock you'd think he'd be used to it, but – “Bit not good, that.”

“What?” asked Sherlock, puzzled.

“Accusing him. Man feels horrible enough right now, as it is.”

“I didn't _accuse_. I _asked_.”

John stared at him. Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

After a while John asked, “Where are we going, anyway?”

“To see Lestrade's daughter.”

“Oh my God!” the young woman squealed, when she saw the photo of the brooch. “Of course I remember it! I loved that brooch! It was my prize possession for _ages_!” She smiled fondly at the image, while John looked on, stunned. Sherlock remained as impassive as ever. “Oh. My. God,” she repeated, more slowly, stunned herself now. “This – this is what Dad is – Those are really diamonds? Oh God, I thought it was just glass. You know, costume jewellery.” She leant against the wall, as if she might fall over without it.

“Where did you get it?”

“Oh, it was a prize or something. You know, at the dentist's, or school, or Brownies – they're always giving out little rewards for good behaviour.”

John looked a little sceptical. “A teacher at school, or a Guide Leader – someone just handed it to you?”

“No,” she said uncertainly. “Usually you get to pick through a box. Select whatever you want from a bunch of cheap toys and trinkets. I must have been amazed to find this. I remember thinking how fabulous it was – like a princess!” Her smile came and went again quickly. “Oh, God. I feel sick.”

“Did you wear it frequently?” asked Sherlock.

“Oh no, not at all, actually. I would put it on in my room, but it never really looked right with my ordinary frocks, you know. Plus I worried about losing it. Then I did lose it! God, I was heartbroken. And it was at Dad's, all this time!” She looked up at Sherlock. “You're going to tell them it wasn't him, right? Dad had nothing to do with it!”

“So, where to now?” asked John, as Sherlock hailed a taxi.

“New Scotland Yard, please,” Sherlock said to the cabbie.

“You've already examined the brooch,” said John, as Sherlock bent over it with his instruments. “Do you think you might have overlooked something?” John knew the answer – “of course not” – but he was still upset about the detective's harrying of the Chief Inspector and was not above needling him.

“Gabriella did not pick this out of a prize box,” Sherlock responded. John wondered how that was an answer.

“It would just add to the mystery, how it could have ended up amongst a set of baubles,” John agreed.

“She couldn't remember where or how she obtained it. You saw how her face lit up at just the photo – would she really have forgotten where she first saw it, if she'd picked it out herself? No. She found it one day amongst her things and assumed it arrived the way of many of her other trinkets.”

“Are you back to Lestrade now? Jesus, Sherlock!” John paced the room, visibly annoyed. Sherlock kept working. John watched as he took samples from some of the toys and broken figures. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Sherlock heaved the sigh of the long-suffering and mumbled something about “idiots” which John chose not to hear.

The door to the evidence lab opened. “What the hell!” exclaimed Anderson as he entered the room. “Why are you – ” Before either of them could respond, Anderson corrected himself. “Oh, sorry, my mistake. With all that broken crockery I thought you were messing about in one of my cases.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. “What case? You have a case involving broken ceramics?” It was phrased as a question but sounded more like a demand.

Anderson was taken aback. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it was a clay figure – ”

“And there was a murder? You only work on homicides. Why did no one tell me about this!” Sherlock moved to stand directly in front of Anderson, crowding him. “What murder? I need the file, now!”

Anderson described the case as they went to retrieve the file. “Nice middle-aged lady. Lived alone, a couple of cats. Morbidly obese, but harmless. Neighbours liked her well enough, didn't cause any problems. No enemies, no rough people coming round. Not many visitors at all. There was a bit of a struggle, but she couldn't have put up much of a fight, not in her condition. Nothing stolen from the flat, just a few figurines broken during the fight. Why would anyone want to kill her?”

Soon they were in the murdered woman's home. Sherlock spoke his observations aloud, “She lived alone, no immediate family, never had any children, not much in the way of extended family either – but look at this: photos of children on the walls, children's artwork, crafts.”

Sherlock swished through the flat. “And here in the pantry – a high-chair, not used in months – years. Boxes half-filled with nappies, different sizes. In the cupboards we have bottles, toddler's cups, dusty, pushed all the way back, not used for years, again.”

In the sitting room a chest of drawers was filled with puzzles and games, less dusty for having been in the drawers, but showing all the signs of formerly well-loved items now lying neglected.

“She wasn't expecting to run a day-care, this flat is much too small. She never had kids living here, all the kids' things have been left untouched since she moved in. But why did she have them in the first place, if she never had children? Didn't take care of extended family's kids – didn't have any. And why bring all this lot with her? She thought she'd be taking care of kids again – why else keep nappies and a high-chair? but didn't know their ages, had to be prepared – Foster parent! She was a foster parent! Not here, she planned to, but didn't, don't know why, doesn't matter – ” Sherlock swirled back to the photos on the wall and punched in Donovan's number on his mobile.

“Sally. You are looking for the older brother of a child fostered by Melissa Hadley several years ago, in Ireland. The child had lived in London, but was sent to Ireland and ended up in Hadley's home. The older brother has been in prison since just after the theft of the brooch and was released only recently. He murdered Hadley and ransacked Lestrade's.”

Sherlock stopped talking, listening to Donovan. “No, I know she's not a carer – not here. In Ireland! But the child had lived here before being sent there. No, I don't know why! What does it matter? Listen, Hadley likely cared for a number of children, but not many of them will have older brothers whose prison terms coincide with the dates I just gave you. Do your job and get on it!”

Sherlock swept out of the flat, looking smug. John trailed after him, looking bewildered. Situation normal, then.

Once again, Sally found herself climbing the stairs of 221B. This time her heart was somewhat lightened. The wheels of justice were grinding slowly, too slowly, as always, but Lestrade should be released by morning, or the wrath of Donovan would be felt. Sally dwelt on this thought, and not on what she was planning to say during this visit.

“All right, Fr– Holmes, we got your man, and forensics can place him in both flats. Now do us a favour and explain what the hell is going on?!”

Sherlock smiled benevolently and rose gracefully from his lounging position in his chair. John rolled his eyes. The Dramatic Reveal – Sherlock's favourite part.

The murderer had been a young man at the time of the Princesses' visit, taking care of his little brother. He'd become involved in a brawl just outside a pub, knocking a man senseless. As the police arrived, he took to his feet, but not before noticing something shiny on the street by the fallen man. It was a brooch – a pretty valuable-looking thing. He stuck in his pocket and ran off to fetch his brother from school.

The bobbies caught up with him there. He didn't mind being nicked for a street fight – that'd blow over soon enough – but he didn't want to lose the brooch. He stuck it in what he thought was his brother's clay figurine, left to harden at the school.

Turned out some of the brawlers were in the gang that organised the jewellery theft. The police couldn't connect him with them – how could they? He wasn't involved. But worse for him, the man he'd knocked down died without regaining consciousness. Now he was in for manslaughter.

Still, if he was patient, he'd be rich when he finally left prison. The brooch was safe. He told his little brother (who'd had to go into care when he went to prison) to keep the clay figure safe for him. That it meant something to him. The importance the boy put on the piece imprinted itself on Melissa, and she treasured it as a keepsake of her foster-son, whom she loved dearly whilst he lived with her, as she did all her kids.

Hadley's murderer tracked her down easily enough once he was released. When he went to break the figurine, she tried to stop him – he pushed her away, she lost her balance and struck her head – hard. But it was all for nothing – the brooch wasn't there. He must have put it in the wrong damn piece.

He remembered that a kid named Lestrade had been in the same class as his brother – a copper's kid: he had made sure his brother didn't mess with her. So Lestrade's place was the next one he went for. First he broke anything that looked liked a child's handiwork, but gradually he grew frustrated and started smashing everything.

None of that would have mattered, because in fact the clay figure had broken long ago, and the brooch had fallen out. Perhaps the brooch landed in a box full of other items, where it lay unnoticed. Gabriella'd had her dad fix the broken figurine, but didn't discover the brooch until much later.

John had on his usual awestruck face, but before he could put in his typical “Brilliant!” or “Fantastic!” Sally spoke. “Sherlock, I know you think we're jealous of you, down at the Yard. But we're not. We're proud of you. If you come to New Scotland Yard tomorrow, there's no one, from the Commissioner to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be honoured to shake your hand.”

It cost her something to say it, yet she knew it was true. She was proud of him. He might be a freak – he was a freak – but he was _their_ freak. And he came through for them, every time. For Lestrade's sake, she'd swallow any amount of pride to tell Holmes so himself.

John saw only calm sincerity on her face, her head held high as ever. Sherlock looked at her blankly for a moment, and then turned away, back to John. He met John's eyes for a second, and John saw his face quiver. Sherlock moved quickly to the window, twitched aside the drapes. He sniffed, started to speak, and then cleared his throat. “Thank you. Apparently you – “ he started to turn back towards Sally, when he caught John's eyes again. “Yes, thank you. John, you will want to write up your blog whilst the details are still fresh in your mind, lest they slip away. Good night, Sally. Should any interesting case arise I would be happy to give you a hint or two towards its solution.”

**Author's Note:**

> A much shorter version of this was submitted for the March challenge of [thegameison_sh](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com). This fic was in part inspired by two prompts from [sherlockbbc_fic](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com): [No sir, we're proud of you](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=22192632#t22192632) and [Consultants](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31718999#t31718999).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pride Goeth (the Revelation remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813546) by [whitefang (radialarch)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/whitefang)




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